I was in my dorm room in Flagstaff, sitting at a creaky desk in front of a brand-new computer. Music blasted from my speakers as I stared at two windows open on my screen: one was a blank essay for my literature class, the other, a half-written email to my professor begging for an extension. I'd been sitting there for what felt like forever, trying to come up with something—anything—to get me out of writing that essay. My fingers hovered uselessly over the keyboard, tapping random keys just to hear the clicks.
I never heard the notification ding telling me I had an unread email, probably because the music was too loud, but I noticed the strange email address pop up on my screen. The subject line read: Remember me? My stomach did a weird flip, like I’d just been called on in class.
I clicked without thinking.
Dearest Liz,
I don’t know if you’ll remember me, but I was an exchange student at West High in 2002. My name is Ben Smith, and I’m back in England now, attending University. I’m working on a project for my statistics course, and I thought it would be interesting to get an American perspective. Would you be willing to help? Nothing invasive, I promise.
Ben
And that’s when I found out Ben Smith had, in fact, noticed me during our senior year. I spent a good five minutes mentally replaying the image of him—the golden boy, shirtless, muscles flexing as he ran laps around the outdoor track. I caught myself smiling at my screen like an idiot. That image lingered long enough for me to hit reply.
Ben,
Of course I remember you! How’s everything? I’m in college too, and I’d be happy to help out with your project. Would email work for the survey, or do you need a phone number? Let me know!
Liz
Breezy. Nonchalant. Perfect. At least, that’s what I told myself. In reality, my palms were sweaty, and I reread the message ten times before daring to send it. Of course, I didn’t let on that it took me a solid ten minutes to craft that laid-back response. Six years have passed since that exchange, and honestly, I don’t remember much about the survey anymore. But I do remember the surprise, the rush of hearing from him.
I only tell you this story because it’s the beginning of how I reconnected with that British hunk.
Chapter 3
Ben, February 28
It took me three days after that phone call to work up the nerve to contact Liz again. It wasn’t even a planned thing, really. I’d gone out to a pub with some classmates and met a girl. She was pretty enough, and we spent a good chunk of time chatting at the bar. Honestly, I can’t even remember what we talked about. Toward the end of the night, she’d playfully smacked me on the arm and said, “It’s a good thing you’re sexy, because you’re really quite an ass.”
I’m sure I wasn’t a gentleman after that. I probably made my exit in record time. I like to think I give off the impression of not caring, but that stung. It didn’t sit right with me.
I left the pub and aimlessly wandered around campus, the cool night air sharp against my skin. It was just after midnight. A quick Google search told me it was still only 5 PM back in the States. I didn’t have a long-distance calling card on me, so I decided to shoot Liz a text instead.
Why Liz? Why not? She was the most straightforward of the people I’d contacted. She’d surprised me once already by refusing to give shallow answers, so maybe I trusted her to prove me wrong again. But that was a load of bollocks, really. I was pissed off at women in general, and part of me was hoping to find a way to prove Liz was just as shallow as the others—only caring about looks.
Ben: Liz, it’s Ben Smith. Hope you don’t mind me texting. How are you?
Liz:
Hi Ben. I don’t mind at all. I’m great! You?
Ben: Been better, but I’ve also been worse. Thanks for asking.
Liz: Anything I can help with?
Ben: Not really, but cheers.
Liz: How’s the survey going?
Ben: All finished, actually.
Liz: And?
Ben: You lot prefer hot bodies, haha.
Liz:
Not all.
